


The Adventure of the Blue Parrot

by Taz



Category: Casablanca (1942), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films)
Genre: M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-19 01:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14864099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taz/pseuds/Taz
Summary: In the last weeks of 1941, with World War 2 raging in Europe, Dr. John Watson is sent undercover to Casablanca, city of refugees and spies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iwantthatcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/gifts).



_It’s common knowledge that during the war years my friend Sherlock Holmes put aside his practice as a private consulting detective to act as an agent of His Majesty’s government at the behest the Secret Intelligence Service. No record of his exploits would be complete without a full accounting of those missions, but under the Official Secrets Act the files will remain sealed until 1971._

_Since the war’s end, unfortunately, the national appetite for films and articles concerning Holmes has proved inexhaustible, with the result that errors have intruded into the popular narrative and been accepted as fact by historians. As I had the privilege of assisting him in certain of those cases, and do not anticipate being available to bear witness when the files are opened, I feel a special urgency to set down events as they occurred._

_Should the reader have any doubt as to the truth of my assertation, I urge him to consider the case of Dr. Franz Tobel, the inventor of the Tobel bombsight. The exfiltration of Dr. Tobel from Munchenstein was accomplished under the very nose of the Abwehr, and without perpetrating a diplomatic crisis with neutral Switzerland. It is known to the general public only because the SoE permitted the Ministry of Information to release a version of the story as a popular film._

**_Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon_ ** _was immensely successful. Given the dire state of the nation’s morale in 1940, an undoubted coup was what was needed but, obviously, certain facts had to be redacted and, for story-telling purposes, the time-line was shortened. I appreciate the MoI was not in the business of making historical documentaries but, such was the pressure to have the tale before the public in the shortest possible time, the resultant lacunae were filled up with so much lurid poppycock that it created an entirely false impression of events and personalities._

_It isn’t that I mind being portrayed as a vague, elderly buffoon—despite being two years younger than Holmes—my self-esteem is not that fragile…_

As I typed the last sentence, a siren went off in the distance. I glanced over at Holmes, who was lounging on the sofa with his morning coffee and the daily papers about him. With a perfect communion of spirit, he looked at me, at the same moment, and I had no doubt that he, too, was recalling the winter of ’41. I have no doubt that most of my readers, too, recall the sirens, the anti-aircraft guns, and the searchlights cutting through the smoke as the bombs fell, for seventy-six days and nights, without letup.

With the wail of the first high-pitched siren, whoever was home—Mrs. Hudson, young Billy in the months before he was called up, or myself—would grab the emergency aid kit. We would douse the lights and decamp to the Anderson shelter in the garden, where we huddled in the damp for hours, brewing tea over a Primus stove, while London was laid ruin.

It is impossible to describe the shock of stumbling out of a wet shelter after a sleepless night to find the world reduced to rubble. The butcher, the baker, the green grocer, and the furniture store showrooms—all fixtures of Baker Street— were gone. Houses were gutted.

When I remember the seemingly interminable night of 10 May—we had no idea it was the last great raid of the Battle of Britain—it seems the intermittent attacks after were worse. There were moonless nights when I’d stumble home in the blackout after a double shift at the hospital, dreading what I would find. But we were fortunate. Shattered windows, fallen chimney bricks, and a railing smashed by a bus that was blown sideways were the worst we physically endured, but we were always short of sleep; always on alert.

One woke at the backfire of a car, already reaching for the siren-suit, and I will not describe the stress associated with fire duty, bomb disposal, clearing rubble…identifying the dead was the worst.

Holmes, in those days, was so frequently away that I fell into the habit of wandering down to the kitchen when I returned from a shift. It seemed as if Mrs. Hudson was always waiting for me with the kettle on the boil.

On 15 November, at three in the morning, you would have found both of us sitting at the corner of her work table, drinking tea and rum and becoming quite righteous as to the state of things that couldn’t be helped.

“Good old Gunfire, the soldiers’ old friend. However, did we keep the army rolling without it?”

“Top you up, Doctor?”

“Please.” I held out my cup. “This is excellent tea.”

“You can’t care what the Ministry of Food says, there’s no making a decent cup without a spoonful for the pot.”

“During the last war...” I had to interrupt myself to cover a yawn.

“What’s that Doctor?”

“Wh-What? Oh, sorry…sorry, rough night.” My thoughts were drifting from exhaustion.

“You were speaking of the last war.”

“Oh, yes. I was working at a forward aid station. When they sent the mule up with the rations, it was all papers of sugar mixed up with the tea. Some of us only wanted the sugar; some wanted wanted tea. You couldn’t separate it; everyone hated it. Some clever dick in a Ministry thought that one up.”

“His mother should have given him a rap on the knuckles.”

I agreed. Most likely I would have indulged in good round of grousing about the never-ending, never-varyingly, god-awful plum-and-apple jam, and the ministers, back then, who were paid off by the manufacturers, but for having to plunk my cup down and cover another jaw cracking yawn.

Mrs. Hudson watched me indulgently. “Some man from that secret lot down at Number 64 came by yesterday at supper time.”

“How do you know they’re a secret lot,” said I, when I’d stopped yawning.

“Cause one of ‘em ‘at works there is Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew, an’ ‘e won’t tell ‘er wot it is ‘e does.”

“Mrs. Harris to the life,” said I, pinching the bridge of nose between two fingers. “That does sound like a secret lot. They were looking for Holmes, I presume?”

“Looking for you, Doctor,” she said. “Here, you go up and have a nice lie down, before you break me mum’s good china cup. He’ll either be back, or he won’t.”

I took her excellent advice and went upstairs.

It’s remarkable that if women truly are the weaker sex, how was it they have such a practical capacity to make-do and endure that far outstrips a man’s? If I had lost close to two stone since the war began, it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson’s fault. She was a farmer’s daughter, born and bred and if Holmes and I weren’t reduced entirely to skin and bones, it was because of the chickens she kept cooped in the back and the produce from her garden.

I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to a bit of fresh ham when the star of our pig club got the old chippy-chop. She had organized everything, I cannot say too much of the miracles she wrought with our ration books. Who was it who queued up for hours for an ounce of tea?

Tea wasn’t rationed but, with imports curtailed, finding it was sometimes hopeless. I checked the black-out curtains and climbed into bed, thinking of the hot sweet tea with half an inch of sugar crystals in the bottom we used to have in Palestine. What wouldn’t I have given for a glass…

I should have known better than to ask.

When I woke, it was mid-morning, and Mrs. Hudson’s ‘man from 64’ was in the sitting room, and so was Sherlock Holmes. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of my friend for weeks, but there was no time to greet him properly, or to observe that he needed a haircut. In fact, I hadn’t finished tying the sash of my gown, much less swallowed a mouthful of coffee, before Holmes was telling me to pack a bag; we were going on holiday to Morocco.

Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew said that he would make it right with Bart’s.

“Oh, no,” I said, applying my fundament to the seat of the basket chair. “Weren’t we planning a holiday in Cornwall.”

“Given a choice between Cornwall in November…grey fog and rocky beaches.”

“I like rocky beaches. I have a great affection for rocky beaches.”

“Do you like them girded with miles of barbed wire and land mines? Think of smooth golden sand, the Rift Mountains in the distance, fresh fruit, exotic Berber tribesmen and—”

“The Vichy French? Did you forget about them? I’m sure they’ll be over the moon, having two Englishmen drop in for tiffin.”

“This mission requires your special experience and skill,” said Holmes.

The look I gave him spoke volumes, none of them good.

“You’re not going to sulk, are you?”

“No one will know either of you is English,” Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew said, plunking a briefcase on the table. “Covers have been prepared; I have the background documents here for your perusal.”

At just that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying my traveling case. “Here’s your bag, Doctor,” she said.

“Are you in on this, too?” I said.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, primly. “Your bath’s run. Best jump in while it’s hot.”

“I’m not four years old, nor have I any intention of letting myself to be shanghaied! What do you take me for?”

“Who said anything about being shanghaied?” said Holmes.

“I did!” said I.

“Doctor, this is a critical mission,” Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew said.

“So is my work at Barts,” I said.

“I agree,” said Holmes. “But with the Blitz over, it’s not as critical as it was in the spring, at least for now, and your health is just as important, if not more so. My dear, you’re exhausted. Remember? We agreed you need rest.”

I couldn’t argue with him. It had been low tide with me from lack of sleep and the strain to my nerves. The damage to my lungs from gas in the last war wasn’t helping and, I had to admit, there was much that appealed in the thought of sunshine, flowers, and the deep blue sea—this scepter’d isle can be damned cold and foggy place in November.

I was aware that adrenaline was beginning to surge through my system, but I crossed my arms and fixed my chin. I can be as stubborn as an army mule.

“Come wiss me to ze Casbah,” said Holmes.

“Now you’re Pepe Le Moko?”

“You’d prefer my Hedy Lamar?” Holmes leaned toward me. I should have known he would have sensed that I was weakening, and he hit me with the clincher. “I need your help,” he said.

“But you’re talking of a two-man invasion of Morocco.”

“It’s not that bad; merely a little look about the place.” said he. “Come now, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“We get shot for espionage,” I said. I wasn’t having with that sort of foolishness. “I know how that goes—without one last pipe or a dram of Lagavulin.”

“I promise you’ll have both.”

“Your word on it?”

“And my hand,” said Holmes.

“Perhaps, in that case…” I started to say.

“Good man! I knew we could count on you,” said Holmes, as Mrs’ ‘Arris’s nephew leapt up from his chair.

“Thank you, Doctor!” he cried. “I’ll have a car here in an hour. And I’m sorry—I hope that it won’t be more than a small sacrifice—but for your part, you’ll need to be clean shaven.”

“My part? What! Wait! Who said anything about any part?”

“I’ll have your things packed in a thrice, Doctor,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“Wait! I never…!” They left me sputtering, overjoyed they had me in their clutches.

And, in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to waste the fuel and hot water. Within the hour, I was bathed, shaved— No, that was not a small sacrifice! —dressed, and bundled into a ministry car.

We were driven to…never mind, that bit will always be classified.

What did happen was that two hours later we were over the English Channel and on our way to Lisbon in a Short Sunderland Flying Boat.

The Luftwaffe referred to the Sunderland as the _Feliegendes Stachelschwein_ , or the Flying Porcupine, for the array of guns with which it was equipped. It was a highly defensible bomber, but only when we were over the Bay of Biscay and the two RAF escort fighters peeled off, was I able to relax enough to look through the packet that ‘Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew’ had handed to me before we took off.

A blue passport in the packet bore the seal of the United States. An embossed stamp obscured the details of the photograph on the first page. It was my face, although, it looked as if I had been surprised by the photographer. I could not recall ever having such a picture taken. On the page opposite the photo was a message in script, stating, _‘This document is not legal for travel to England, France, Northern Ireland, Canada, Bermuda, Australia, Germany, Japan or Italy for the purpose of enlisting in the armed services of a foreign government.’_

Other items included a book on the agriculture of the Maghreb, and a well-worn wallet, containing a Maryland driver’s license, photographs—yes, of my Mary—and a membership card for the Rotary.

We were the Sunderland’s only passengers. Holmes occupied a seat across the aisle from me and was looking down at the water below. His hands were entwined and the forefingers steepled in the pose he habitually assumed when he was brooding over some especially thorny problem.

“They’ve made a mistake!” I called out, over the noise of the engines. “These papers belong to a buyer for the Windward Spice Company in Baltimore. Name of George Armistead.”

“It’s a useful profession,” Holmes said. “He’ll be able to travel anywhere in Morocco and have a reason to speak with anyone.”

“Do you think the French or Germans will give a toss for that?” said I.

Holmes chuckled, as I had intended he should, and turned the window to face me. He looked absurdly young with the curls tumbling over his brow.

It felt strange being cleanshaven for the first time in—well, since I could recall—and I wondered if it altered my appearance as much as longer hair did to Holmes’.

In the scramble to get ready, I hadn’t been paying attention to his preparations. Now, I saw that he had abandoned his Harris tweeds for a short double-breasted suitcoat with a cinched waist. In those days, people were wearing what they could find in the back of their closets, but there was something not-quite-English in the cut of the coat, and the way he’d combined it with charcoal grey bags, worn pull-over, and dingy camel muffler…

“You look as if you would be more comfortable on the Rive Gauche,” I said.

“Behold Roger Vernet…” Here Holmes made an emphatically gallic gesture to emphasize his words. “He’s as dissolute and destitute a failed writer as you can imagine.”

“I was wondering why you’d let your hair grow. Will I be out of line if I remind you hashish is among the major agricultural products of Morocco?”

“Not at all.” He gave me a rueful look. “But I assure you that there is more than enough in this mission to keep my mind fully occupied.”

“I wasn’t planning to bring up the subject of our over-hasty departure from Baker Street but, since you have, what is the mission?”

“We’re to observe and take notes. And, in your case, rest.”

“Thank you. Feel free to expound. Take all the time you like.”

“You’re growing cynical, old friend. Do you recall, when the French government was in complete disarray after Dunkirk?”

“Of course.” It was impossible to forget the evacuation. The press called it a brilliant tactical retreat, if he wants to; I called it a damned debacle. So many young men left behind.

“It’s not generally known but Hitler tried to make it a condition of the armistice that Germany be given control of Morocco, with permission to build eight air fields around Casablanca. Thankfully, Pétain was so desperate to maintain the illusion of French autonomy he found something like his spine. He refused, and the devil did not insist, but the reason for he asked in the first place is still valid.”

“And what is that?”

“Location, location, location, as that consummate ass Lord Wimsey is prone to saying. If you fly due west from Casablanca and the first place you’d strike would be the outer banks of North Carolina.”

“But America is a neutral country.”

“Which it persists in shouting at the top of its lungs, at the same time Roosevelt makes quasi-legal trade deals that deliver fighter planes to an air strip not five miles from the Canadian border. How long do you think Germany is going to tolerate it?”

“Does it matter?”

I didn’t have to elaborate on what I thought; Holmes knew. It was no secret that I admired Mr. Roosevelt for not knuckling under to the isolationists in his government.

“No. If…no, when America enters the conflict, for whatever reason, its resources and tremendous industrial potential will turn the course of the entire war. Our mission is to get a feel for which way the French forces in North Africa will turn when that happened. Do the French generals stay loyal that German puppet government in Vichy, or will they throw in with the new ally of Great Britain?”

That this was even a question, in November of 1941 may surprise my readers. Maybe they don’t know, or have forgotten, how in July of 1940, just days before the Vichy government was officially established, Churchill ordered the Royal Navy to sink the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir.

Perhaps he intended the raid to prove to the rest of the world that Great Britain would fight on, come hellfire and damnation. It certainly prevented the fleet from falling into the hands of the Kriegsmarine. It also killed nearly 1,300 French sailors. That it happened while the Franco-German Armistice was still being hammered out, many saw as the gross betrayal of an ally.

“This should be interesting,” I said.

“I knew you’d understand,” said Holmes.

We were traveling right into the heart of French North Africa. I realized I had been smoothing my upper lip with my thumb. It was a nervous habit. I made a note to check it.

There was a great deal more we needed to talk about, but I could feel the plane beginning its decent and returned to my packet, intent on absorbing as many of details of George Armistead’s life as possible.

The sun was setting as the Sunderland taxied up to the Tagus River docks, and we deplaned into the arms of another of Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephews, who hustled us into a waiting taxi.

There were two men with the taxi, the driver in the front seat and a tall, rather elegant, man who was standing by the open boot. There were no words exchanged, as we came up. He simply removed a case from the boot and backed away to let Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew stow our things.

Holmes was climbing into the vehicle, and I was about to follow, when suddenly the tall man exclaimed, “You are Doctor Vatson!”

“Yes?” Hearing a German accent, I stiffened. The tall man was approaching, but I noticed Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephew was not showing any particular concern.

“I did not expect—”

The throaty roar of the Sunderland’s engines starting to rev up drowned his words.

“I can’t hear you!” I shouted.

“Your vonderful stories—” He shouted back. “—giffen me so much pleasure.”

“Thank you!”

Usually, if anyone is recognized for my literary efforts, it’s Holmes—as it should be—but it was gratifying to be recognized, nonetheless, and there was no reason I should have expected to see him again.

We shook hands. The German stranger—yes, in addition to his accent, I saw one of those bragging scars on his left cheek that used to be so fancied by students at the German universities—climbed into the Sunderland, which began to back away from the dock.

At that time, Lisbon was the last open capital of Europe and, as a result it was a primary goal for refugees, and a hot bed of spies. Holmes and I were driven to the Avenida Palace Hotel and were not permitted to leave for three days.

I met the real George Armistead that first night, to my great pleasure. He was born in Warwickshire, and turned out to be a naturalized American, with a heart condition. None of those facts had prevented him from offering his services to the British Government, which chose to borrow his expertise for this occasion.

The next three days, he and I spoke of nothing but saffron, cork trees and the city of Baltimore where I had done post-graduate work at the Johns Hopkins Medical School, before the last war. And I refreshed myself on the distinctive version of American spoken there.

Whenever I returned to my room, I never knew what I find there, or not, as the case may be. My Scotch tweeds replaced with light wools? My personal effects swapped for similar items with American labels? It was a very thorough turn around and took some getting used to. While not as bad as swotting the subtleties of Chinese porcelain in a day, it’s hardly surprising any thought of the stranger on the dock went clean out of my mind.

Whilst I was being schooled, Holmes was busy coordinating with more of Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephews, and with some gentlemen from Marseilles.

The third night, we were permitted an evening to ourselves, and Holmes invited me have supper with him in his room. It appeared to be just the two of us, but years ago we had developed a method of communicating by hand gestures that owed much to the system used by the deaf; by that means, he let me know that the room was bugged. Even if it had been the Germans, it wouldn’t have mattered; I was delighted to have him to myself for even an hour, and discretion is ever the better part. We spoke aloud of London, and of our friends, and had an excellent meal that included a robust red with the main course.

After dinner, I took my last glass outside on the balcony. It had grown bitterly cold and there was wind off the ocean, but I would have endured far worse just for the simple pleasure of gazing on a city with its lights all ablaze. Holmes came out and stood with me in the shadows with his arm around my waist. I recall the smell of his pipe tobacco and Bay Rum.

So much for The City of Lights.

The next day, I slipped through a door in one of the hotel’s service corridors and blended in with the departing crowd in the Santa Apolania train station. In front of the station, I caught a taxi to the airport and there boarded an Aero Portuguesa Lodestar, making stops in Tangiers, Rabat, and Casablanca.

It was late afternoon when I checked into the Hôtel Transatlantique. I was exhausted, but a long, deliciously hot shower in a beautifully tiled stall refreshed me, and I went out to take a walk and to begin to familiarize myself with the city.

From my reading, I knew that the nominal ruler of Morocco was the Sultan Sidi Mohammad, that his people were Arab and Berber tribesmen and that, in the past, due to its position at the Straits of Gibraltar, it had been a haven for pirates. Most recently that strategic location had made it the object of a three-way struggle between Portugal, Spain and France. Portugal lost out, and France now claimed a protectorate over the lion’s share, which included Casablanca.

In Casablanca, the sun glares from the plain white walls that demark the villas that line the wide streets. I could see lush gardens inside the gates. I took in the Moorish Revival architecture of the public buildings and cinemas, all showing French films. There were a multitude of charming outdoor cafés. The image of Marshal Pétain was everywhere.

As I walked along, I knew to avoid the eyes of veiled women, and importuning beggars sitting against the walls. I pitied them, though. Trachoma was rampant in the region, and most of them were blind.

Skirting the medina, I saw a street vendor selling oranges and salted almonds, I couldn’t help stopping to dicker with him. My smattering of Arabic was rusty, but I soon had a small sack of almonds and two oranges. They were as bright as new pennies to my war-weary eyes. There was a public park nearby and it was where I consumed my treats, listening to the gentle babbling of a fountain.

My father used to say that the people of the Koran understood gardens. He was also a doctor, and made his career in the army, as I had intended to do before I was invalided out. My brother and I grew up on military posts, often in lands where Islam was the primary religion. Hong Kong, Madras, Kabul, Cairo—three continents—in many ways that evening in Casablanca felt more like home than London had since the war started.

Back at the Transatlantique, I found that the short gray hair that I had glued across the crack below the door handle with a touch of spit was gone. Someone had entered my room and tossed my things while I was out. Since they made a neat job of it, and nothing was missing, I failed to mention the incident to the concierge later when I asked him to recommend a restaurant for dinner.

He praised the Transatlantique’s own beautifully tiled dining room, of course, and said the commander of the Sûreté dined frequently. I slid a folded bill across the counter, along with a hint that I would hoping to enjoy some local entertainment.

He then suggested a sporting club— _excellent food—everybody goes to Rick’s_ —only two blocks away but, if it was exotic entertainment—something different, if I knew what he meant (I knew) there was the Blue Parrot on the _Rue de la Gare_. Only be sure to take a taxi if I went there after dark.

I said I was feeling a touch homesick and walked the two blocks.

Rick’s Café Américain was clean, elegant and well managed. There was a strong Mediterranean feel to the place and the clientele, though primarily expatriates, was pleasantly polyglot. There is no place like it in the States, of course but, in many respects, it was entirely American: my waiter was Hungarian, the bartender was Russian, the Croupier was from Bulgaria, the piano player had been born in Louisiana, and the owner was from Queens.

These, and many other things, I learned over the next few days. That night, I enjoyed an excellent tagine of goat’s meat and a bottle of a local red wine. There was a casino in back and I was tempted. I put my inclinations aside, though, and watched people come and go. I noted there was good bit of the other sort business that goes on _sub rosa_ in such places, but the professional ladies were discreet and, as I said, it was well managed.

There was one slight disturbance as I was waiting in the bar. A young man arrived dressed in Foreign Legion khakis, thoroughly rumpled and stained, but what struck me was the golden color of his skin and the dark mahogany shade of his hair. I had never seen such a striking combination before. That is saying something, when you consider that the armies of Europe have marched through North Africa since before Alexander was a pup, and that the blond, blue-eyed descendants of Vandals are working the rice fields of Egypt today.

The young man—I presumed he was French-Algerian—was obviously looking for someone. His eyes—the color of Chartreuse liqueur—scanned the room. They stopped briefly when they came to me—how I obtained such a good look at their color—then, to my regret, passed on. Then the Of course, the Maître d’ arrived and told him he would have to leave; he wasn’t wearing a tie.

The young man would have none of it, and he and the Maître d’ proceeded to argue the point in a language with which I wasn’t familiar. I was sorry when the waiter came to tell me that my table was ready.

Holmes has often informed me that I’m an accurate observer, but too often fail to see the forest for the trees. I will tell you, knew I was followed as I returned to my hotel. I decided to follow the concierge’s suggestion to not linger in the streets after dark.

I lay under a slowly turning fan that night and reviewed the things I needed to accomplish in the coming weeks. I had a list of spice brokers to contact, I intended to become thoroughly acquainted with the city and its people…and rest. Laying there, I realized how tired I was; I wished that Holmes was there with me.

We had not, of course, discussed the route he would be taking, but I could imagine him flying from Lisbon to Gibraltar, then going from Gibraltar to Perpignan by sea. From there, he would travel overland to _Béziers_ , Arles, and Marseilles…and from Marseilles to Oran…and…

I slept the night through.

The next morning, I stopped in at the American Consulate. The hotel would see that I was registered with the French authorities, but this was Armistead’s first trip to Morocco. There were barely a hundred American citizens in the country and I was going to invite attention. No matter how unlikely it was that I would meet anyone who could, or could not, say that I was a spice buyer from Baltimore, it would be best if I established the right to my identity.

The Consulate on the _Boulevard de Moulay Yousef_ was a rather undistinguished building with a crowd of people in front of it. As I climbed out of the taxi, all I can say is that I was right gob-smacked at the number of people waiting to get in—over two hundred, and most of them European, some with children in hand. While they were calm, standing in a ragged line of conversational groups, there was a palpable air of tension and their attention was fixed on soldiers who controlled how many were permitted through the doors at any one time.

I had almost determined to go back to the hotel and try another day, when a man who was passing by stopped and spoke to me.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“I beg your pardon,” said I, huffing as if I weren’t used to being addressed in such a peremptory fashion.

That recalled the manners his mother beat into him.

“I’m so sorry.” He apologized. “I did not mean to presume. But you look a little bit lost; I thought I could help.”

He was a small man and had rather wide set eyes that gave him a froglike appearance. His voice was certainly soft—I couldn’t place the accent—but his manner was altogether unctuous and ill-bred. But if he wanted to make himself useful, I would put him to work.

“Wh-who are all those people?”

“Jews,” he said. “Trying to get to America. You—you’re American, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course. How did—oh, I see—must be obvious—me—here I am—standing right in front of the place. Is there a crowd like this here all the time?”

“Oh, yes. Every day. But they’re refugees. You don’t have to wait. Go inside and tell them that you’re an American.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I will. Have a good day.”

“You as well,” he said, and I rather liked him better for the sting in the smile he flicked at me.

Inside…

Even at this remove, it’s hard to write of what I found inside.

I was admitted, as the little man had said I would be, but in the anteroom, I found myself at the back of a crowd of people waiting to be called to speak with one of the four clerks who worded behind a railing. The air was rank with the smell of people who, as I discovered, had been traveling and sleeping in their clothes for weeks. Another soldier opened a hinged section of the railing to let a young woman out. She had two solemn children by the hand and I saw there were tears in her eyes.

I braced myself, walked up to one of the soldiers and told him that I was an American citizen there to see the Consul General. He went away and, when he returned, I was escorted straight into the Consul General’s office.

Mr. Harold Goold glanced at the photo and stamps in my passport and said that he had already received notice of my registration, but it was a pleasure to meet me. Was there anything he could do for me? It was obvious he hoped that there wasn’t. I said that I was merely making courtesy call, for which I apologized; I could see that he had a great many demands on his time, and that of his staff. Mr. Goold said that, yes, since the Armistice the American consulate had been handling visa applications and communications, for England, Canada, Australia, Portugal, and Spain, as well as several of the South American countries.

I said that I understood but hoped, should I secure any large orders for the Windward Spice Company, that I would be able to use the consulate’s teletype. As I said this, I took an envelope from my breast pocket, removed the letter inside and pushed it across the desk. One of Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephews and given it to me for Mr. Goold.

He raised an eyebrow as he read it and said that he would happy to do anything he could for me; his wife used Windward Spices. He called in a clerk and provided me a signed copy of my registration card and advised me to stay off the streets at night, and we shook hands. He was very businesslike, and I will say incredibly kind and polite, considering everything he had on his plate.

As I was leaving, I a squad of French police arrived. They began going up to the groups of people on the sidewalk, chivying them and making them show their papers. Several men near the front had time to run off, but one wasn’t quick enough. He was caught and made to show his papers, which proved to be expired. I saw him beaten and pushed into the back of a truck.

Seeing that I was about to depart, the Officer in Charge challenged me to show my papers. When I produced the blue passport with the American eagle, he saluted and stood aside.

I walked away, badly shaken and kept going, thinking the walk would calm me, telling myself I needed to learn the city. I have no idea how far I walked but—as for calming me—I nearly leapt out of my skin as a piercing whistle shrilled, and a raucous voice called, “Hey, Jo! Wanna give it a go?”

I stared about foolishly before realizing that I was in front of the arched entry of a café garden, where a large blue macaw was turning somersaults on a ring perch. Seeing he had my attention, he righted himself, and squawked, “Pluck my feathers! Pluck my feathers! Come on, Jo; give it a go.”

And that was how I found The Blue Parrot.

The Holy Prophet Muhammad (peace and the blessings of Allah be upon him) said that wine is an infamy of Satan; I went inside and ordered whiskey.

That did have the effect of settling my nerves, and I found that the place very much like certain _baladi_ bars in Cairo, right down to the green glass beaded curtains, the plum coloured walls, the flypaper, the flies, and the huge bawah at the door.

The Blue Parrot was more cosmopolitan than Rick’s, where the clientele and entertainment were entirely western. There was a scattering of Europeans in the Blue Parrot, but there were also Moroccans, Turks and Moriscos, as well as Arabs. No women, of course. The tables were arranged around a low stage, so I presumed there was belly dancing in the evenings.

I didn’t see the greasy little man who had spoken to me in front of the consulate until he was beside me. “My American acquaintance,” he said. “How nice to see you again.”

“What you?” I wasn’t pleased. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

“I see you’re having whiskey. Would you like another?” Without waiting for an invitation, he took the seat across from me, and signaled the waiter.

“Really! No! I don’t.”

“I will drink both of them. Do you want a girl?”

“No. I’m married!”

“A boy then? Very clean. Any age. Rooms upstairs. It can be arranged, very cheap.”

“Good God! No!”

“Hashish, kif, Lucky Strikes…?”

“Stop! I don’t need anything! What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I followed you.”

“Your drinks.”

The waiter who set them down in front of us was not the skinny Arab with khol around his eyes who had served me. The man suddenly looming over us was strikingly different. To begin, he was European and must have weighed at least 21 stone. He accentuated his oddity by affecting a fez and wearing a white gallabiyah with a suit jacket over it.

“Ugarte,” he said, “introduce me to your friend.”

It was not a question.

“Of course,” my unwanted friend, said, “Signor Armistead allow me to introduce our host, Signor Ferrari. Signor Armistead is an American.”

“Welcome to Casablanca,” said Ferrari. “How did you meet my friend Ugarte?”

“We bumped into each other front of the American Consulate.”

“And this is your first trip to Casablanca?”

“It is.”

“Well, we must be certain that it isn’t your last. You will not be bothered in the Blue Parrot. If you are, let me know and it will be taken care of. Your drink is on the house. As is yours Ugarte. This once.”

“W-wait…”

Before I could protest his generosity or, depending on how one looked at it, his high handedness, Ferrari had touched his heart and his head, and vanished like Alice’s caterpillar.

Ugarte saw how discomfited I was.

“It’s only a drink,” he said. “You needn’t worry. Signor Ferrari is an honest man, in certain lights.”

“I’m sure,” said I.

I knew Ferrari. At least, I knew his type. As for the importunate little weasel in front of me, I blew out my breath and prepared to dispose of him.

Ugarte forestalled me, saying, “If not the sins of the flesh, Mr. Armistead, for what are you doing in the Blue Parrot?”

“I’m having a drink,” I said. “You know it’s odd, but I don’t recall that I ever told you my name.”

Ugarte didn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps you forgot,” he said. “There are so many things to remember when you’re a stranger in a strange place; little things slip your mind; or so I imagine. It was very kind of you to do that, you know. Talk to a stranger, I mean, Mr. Armistead. You’re in the spice business, yes?”

“Yes.” I sighed.

“Why have you come to Morocco?”

“Because the Japanese are committed to expanding their sphere of influence in Southeast Asia. Europe isn’t the only continent presently at war, you know, and my company is committed to finding markets closer at hand. Fresher spices, better prices.”

“Better spices…?” Ugarte laughed. “That’s very amusing.”

I was rather pleased with it; I had come up with it myself and it had made the real George Armistead laugh when we were discussing my _reason d’etre_ for traveling to Morocco.

“Your company must be a large one.”

“One of the largest.”

“But to take risks like this, in a time of war.”

“My superiors think the risks are worth it. But tell me, Mr. Ugarte, since you know so much about me, what is your business?”

“I thought you guessed. I bring goods up from the Western Sahara.”

“A smuggler,” said I, “I had assumed you were a pimp.”

“That, too.”

“Was it the concierge at the Transatlantique who fingered me?”

“Fingered…? Oh, I see. No, Mr. Adlani is a very nice man.”

“Then who?”

“The housekeeper.” Ugarte made a moue. “She is a friend of mine.”

“How convenient for you,” I said. “Now, stop shillyshallying. What is it you want with me?”

“What everyone in Casablanca wants—a transit visa, of course.”

“I can’t imagine how you think I could help you with that.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for a friend. I thought you would know someone who might consider sponsoring him.”

“You almost sound sincere, Mr. Ugarte, but then I expect that’s an advantage in your profession.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s not my problem.”

“Does your wife know you patronize such places as the Blue Parrot.”

“Mr. Ugarte,” I said, dangerously, “you have nothing on me.”

I made to rise, but Ugarte took hold of my hand. “No! I’m sorry! I did not mean… Please, listen,” he begged.

He was a very small man; I could have shaken him off easily; I could have called for help from Ferrari, the outline of whose bulk I could see the other side of a beaded curtain. Yet, I could tell that Ugarte was moved by some more than ordinarily powerful emotion. Curious, I sank back into my seat.

“Say what you have to say.”

“You saw those people at the consulate?”

“You said they were Jews.”

“And they’re doctors, bankers, diamond merchants, teachers…every profession you can imagine…from every country Germany has crushed under its boot. They thought they would safe when the French granted them asylum. Now the French are turning them over to the Germans.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because, there is a faction in Vichy that would prefer France ally itself with Germany against the Communists, and most of them do not disagree with Herr Hitler about the Jews. Vichy has coordinated its Jew laws with Germany’s, and they are starting to bring the French colonies in line. Sidi Mohammad may do and say what he likes but he won’t be able to hold them off, or even protect his own Jews, forever. That, of course, needn’t concern you.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“You were at the consulate. You saw that man the police took away?”

“I did.”

“Where do you think they’ll take him?”

“I have no idea.”

“There is an internment camp at Sidi-el-Ayachi, about fifty miles southwest of Casablanca. It’s where they put people who should not be free for reasons of public order. Suddenly, for some reason, a great number of people are cluttering up the city.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Just a rumor you understand. But I’ve heard there’s an engineer, a Frenchman—he too is married to an American woman, like yourself—who intends to build a pipeline for oil across the Sahara. The survey is done; the Germans like the idea; all that is needed is money. Can you imagine how many men it would take to build a pipeline across the Sahara? The cost of their food, and water…?”

“I should think it would prohibitive,” I said.

“Yes, if you have to pay for all of it,” Ugarte said. “Mr. Armistead, you have a kind face and access to the American Consul General, who is acting for the British government in this time of crisis. My friend would very much like to go to England…” The whole time Ugarte studied my face, as if wondering what effect his words were having.

“What’s stopping him?”

“He lost his papers.”

“How convenient.”

“It’s the truth. If you knew what he went through to get here. All I’m asking of you is meet my friend and listen his story…maybe you will consider helping him.”

 I don’t know if it’s that I’m a sucker—as the Americans say—for a good story, or I was recalling the face of that poor man the French police had dragged away. “I’ll meet him.” I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Armstead! Thank you,” Ugarte cried. “You won’t regret it.”

“I already do,” I said, “Where do I meet this ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Here. I’ll send a message to Mr. Adlani. In a day or two.”

“Mr. Ugarte enjoy your drink. I’m leaving,”

I tossed back my glass of whiskey—I hadn’t meant to do that either, but it turned out to be an Islay—got up and left.

I did not hear from Ugarte for some time.

I spent few days exploring Casablanca’s Medina the same I had explored the Khan al-Kalilli in Cairo. As a lad I had imagined finding Aladdin’s lamp among its dusty treasures. I never found it and there was no magic lamp in the souk of Casablanca, either, yet I did see wonderful things: rugs, blankets, plate, enamelware, silverwork and polished brass. I tasted olives and breathed saffron, cinnamon, cumin, turmeric and ginger root, all heaped in baskets in the spice stalls. Not the least of that pleasure was the intensity of the colours and smells, after the muted notes of my poor beleaguered England. It was a feast for the senses.

I was welcomed and, when I presented George Armistead’s card to the stall owner that I was always invited into the back. Over bitter coffee and sweet pastry, we talked of spices, and of the future of Morocco when the war was over. There was a deep anger in the Moroccans I met. They were ready to be done with their French Protectors.

I could deal beggars, and with the people who bothered me on my rambles, but I sat down at a café for a cup of tea, I could count on being approached by someone who had a story of tragedy to tell me. I learned that Ugarte was correct. The refugees’ situation was dire and some of those people had been already been prisoners in Dachau. They fled to France and, when the war came to them, they had fled to North Africa, only to be trapped in Casablanca.

Even if they were able obtain a visa, too often there was no way out. Many of them were stateless, and there was an executive order that prohibited men of military age, from leaving the country. Germany would not permit them the possibility of joining their home forces. If their papers expired, they were picked up and jailed as ‘social problems.’

The lucky few who obtained both a visa and a travel permit roamed the port, looking for passage on any ship that was willing to take them. They would pay any amount to sleep on the deck or in a life boat, any chance to get to a port where they could find transportation to America.

Listening to those broken people was distressing to a degree that’s impossible to describe. I was offered anything and everything, but I had no comfort for them, and was deeply regretting the promise I’d made to Ugarte.

I dined the once or twice in the Transatlantique’s dining room. I saw the chief of the Sûreté, Commander Renault there—Mr. Aldani pointed him out to me—he was with a lady whom I recognized. It was the young woman I had seen in the American Consulate, taking two children by the hand. I learned a great deal about Captain Renault from Mr. Aldani. He was known to provide exit visas for a consideration, especially if one were a beautiful woman.

As I said, I suspected that I was being followed that first night. Before the week was out, I was certain of it. I didn’t know by whom, of course, but assumed it was the Sûreté. I’ve always thought that if someone is rooting about in your affairs like a pig, it’s well to let them find a truffle or two. I began taking my tea at the Blue Parrot. I learned the macaw, Blue Peter, was a nasty old bird and fell into the habit of playing backgammon with Signor Ferrari.

As I suspected, he was what was used to be called a remittance man—the younger son of an old English family, sent off to avoid a scandal, and expected to live on a monthly stipend. In Ferrari’s case I had no doubt what kind of scandal and there was no question of a stipend. He was certainly the receiving end of Ugarte’s smuggling operation—a thoroughgoing villain—yet he did not ask intrusive questions or beg for impossible favors.

The only time I saw him behave in a manner less than courteous to anyone was when a dirty little street urchin came to the Blue Parrot, trying to sell wormy dates. Ferrari drove him off with a kick.

“I have to,” he explained. “They’re incorrigible, pickpockets and thieves.”

“Unlike yourself,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said.

Twice in that time, I sent contracts to the Windward Spice Company via the Consulate’s teletype—God knows what they made of them—toward the end of the second week, I was starting to become anxious about Holmes. I had known it might be some time before he turned up, but there was a nagging discomfort in the back of my mind.

In all that time, I did not hear a word from Ugarte.

I had been certain he was going to try and play me for a fool, but when a few days had gone by and there was no sign of the threatened message, I relaxed. Ferrari said nothing, but it wouldn’t have bothered me if he’d been picked up by the Sûreté.

Everything changed the night Ferrari mentioned he expected a crowd that night; some of his dancers were back after a month performing in Tangiers. There was one, he said, who was something out of the ordinary. Watching _raqs baladi_ isn’t a burden any red-blooded Englishman minds bearing. Her name was Delilah. How could I resist?

I could imagine Holmes saying _Quite easily_ in that dry way of his. I missed him and was tired of sleeping alone.

Delilah was the last dancer of the evening. She slipped through the beaded curtain and onto the stage with the lower part of her face hidden behind a black silk veil. The khol around her eyes made them shine like emeralds. Her hips were slim, almost boyish compared to some of the ‘women’ but they were smooth and the mound below her jeweled navel looked soft, although I knew it was muscle. One sees that effect on ancient Greek statues, but rarely in lifeher. She began by teasing her audience as undulated around the stage with both corners of her veil lifted behind her head, as if she were might raise it. The bells on her bracelets and ankle bangles chimed in time to the music.

She began to move faster as the rhythm sped. Her shoulders slid from side to side, while she flexed her abdomen and rolled her hips, until she was describing an infinity of loops—up, down, sideways—faster and faster. She went on and on until, with the cymbals crashing and the drums providing distant thunder, her belly, hips and shoulders were moving so quickly that the air seemed to vibrate. Spectacular control! She had me breathless, as she had all the men in that room, and then bang! With a crash and sudden silence, the dance was over, and she was taking her bows.

We, the men at the tables, surged to our feet applauding, except for the four closest to the stage—young and sunburnt—Europeans. All through Delilah’s dance, they had moaned in low tones, occasionally yipping like love-starved coyotes. Now they were tossing small coins on the stage, yelling at her to start dancing again. Calling for her to remove her veil and bells.

It was such unbelievable rudeness, especially considering the skill she displayed that, from the expressions I could see being cast their way, and the fact that they were Europeans, I expected things could get ugly quickly. I was not wrong.

One of them started to crawl up on the stage. He was too drunk to stand and, falling forward, managed to get hold of the hem of her skirt. He pulled, whether to try to get up on his knees, or pull her to him, I couldn’t tell. I was close but too far to pull him off the stage. I expected a riot and it’s likely there would have been one except that Delilah—Delilah took two steps and kicked him so hard that he flew backwards and landed on the table.

The table legs collapsed, knocking over the chairs and spilling drinks. Delilah shook her bells, over him, and captured our attention. She whirled around twice, skipped off the stage, and just before she vanished through the beaded curtain, turned and blew a kiss from the tips of her fingers.

Most of the men laughed and cheered, the few that weren’t kicking the man on the floor and shoving his chums, interfering with them getting him on his feet. He was clutching one of his friends about the neck and giggling like a manic. Clearly, he was feeling no pain, although, he certainly would in the morning.

I pushed in amongst them to make certain that he wasn’t seriously hurt. “Doctor,” I said, “I’m a doctor!” and, looking me, straight in eye, he said,

“Kiss me ‘Ardy, the fook’n bike’s gone an’ broke me aris.”

That was not the place I expected to hear Cockney rhyming slang. I backed to get out of the way of his friends, who started hauling him to the door.

“Disgusting brutes,” said, a voice in my ear. It was Ugarte.

“Oh,” I jumped, and huffed. “Must you?! I didn’t see you come in.”

“You were watching the show,” he said. “I didn’t want to disturb you. What did you think?”

“Delilah?”

“Who else?”

"Amazing muscular control.” Then I saw the side of his face was badly bruised. “Good Lord, what’s happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Delilah is the friend I mentioned. Come and meet her?”

I had assumed Ugarte’s ‘friend’, if there was such a person would turn out to be a brazen little catamite, but when the wind is southerly, I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.

“How delightful,” I said, with a sinking feeling.

While we were chatting, the cockney brute was removed by his friends, who were urged on by Ferrari’s huge bouncer, wielding a fly swatter.

There is usually amateur dancing after the show, but the musicians were taking refreshment while the mess was picked up and we were able to slip through the beaded curtains without attracting attention.

At the top of the stairs, Ugarte knocked on the door of the first dressing room. “Delilah?” he called. “Are you decent?”

“Never in this world,” replied a surprisingly deep. “You may as well come in.”

We found Delilah, sitting in front of a mirror, removing her make up… No, there are times when my mind still plays that trick on me. We found a golden young man—the legionnaire that I had seen at Rick’s—sitting in front of the mirror, removing Delilah’s make up.

“Umar put Jimsy and the boys out,” Ugarte said.

“Should have done it sooner. They’ll be back—” Delilah broke off, swung around, and looked at Ugarte’s face. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” said Ugarte. “This is the American gentleman I was telling you about.”

“ _Grus Gott!_ ” Hurriedly, ‘Delilah’ wiped the cold cream from his hands and offered one to me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m so very pleased to meet you. Jakov Kordt. Please, call me Jakov.”

As I reached to take his hand, the door behind me flew open and struck my shoulder where I had my old wound. That sent me plunging into Jakov’s bosom and caused great amusement as four young men—there was no doubt in my mind who they were—piled into the dressing room.

They insisted on making coarse jokes while Delilah found a chair for me and dodging Ugarte, who screamed at them in what I learned later was Hungarian, while he struck them on their heads, arms and shoulders with his rolled-up panama hat.

Finally, Delilah called them a pack of beasts, and what did they think they were doing? They settled down then. I will give them that they apologized, when they found they had hurt me.

Who were these desperate characters and what did they want? Clearly, they knew Delilah, and called him Jock, and so I deduced they were English soldiers. What they wanted to know, when everyone had been introduced, was could I help them get to out to Lisbon, Montreal, Brisbane, Wellington, Cape Town—it didn’t matter where, as long as it meant they could get back to their own forces.

“Why not ask for the moon?” I said. “Who do you think I am?”

The whole gang—now including Jakov—turned to Ugarte, who had crossed his arms, and was declining to intervene for reasons of his own.

“Anyway, I don’t see how I can help you.” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “Much less why I should.”

“We’re trying to get ‘ome…” said of one of them—Jimsy who, it was obvious, had been born within the sound of Bow Bells.

Two of them began to tell me they were members of the British Expeditionary Force and produced green and red identity tags to prove their _bona fides_. As they had a habit of interrupting and correcting each other, at this point, it will be best if I summarize the story they told me.

They been part of a group of sixty who were captured when the Germans separated the BEF from the French First Army near Armentières. The whole group had escaped and split up. These four had made their way south with the help of a succession of French farmers and had reached Marseilles in time to hear of the raid on Mers-el-Kébir. Needless to say, they were promptly detained.

The commander of their jail, however, had been anti-Vichy and he taken their parole, possibly hoping they would take a hint and disappear in the confusion. One night in town, thoroughly drunk, they met Jakov Kordt and stuck up a friendship. It was through Kordt they had obtained forged papers that had let them travel to Casablanca, where they had been hoping for assistance at the British Consulate office.

While the British soldiers told their story, Kordt had been getting dressed. Now it was his turn, and his tale was much more complicated.

I had been correct in one thing about him: he was Algerian, on his mother’s side. She had been a dancing teacher; his father had been German, the manager of a theatre troupe that travelled all over Europe and the Middle East. The family was Jewish and in 1939, after his father had been beaten to death by Brownshirts, Jakov, his mother, and twin sisters, had emigrated to France. Mother and sisters had gone on to England, while Jakov remained in Paris to begin a career in journalism, and to write a novel.

He had discovered what a mistake that was when the French declared war. The Sûreté went through the refugee community—rounding up artists, teachers, writers—anyone suspected of communist sympathies—and Jakov, who held a German passport, and had had a schoolboy flirtation with the party, was arrested and interned as an ‘undesirable alien.’

Friends were able to get him freed but could not arrange for the visa that would allow him to join his family in England, and so he stayed in Paris, working on his novel, and contributing articles to the leftwing magazines, which did not endear him to the authorities. He finished the novel and mailed it to a publisher in London exactly one week before Pétain announced that France had surrendered.

Knowing what was likely to happen to him when the Germans arrived, he joined the thousands who were fleeing ahead of the Wehrmacht and clogging the roads in those weeks. He had a permit to travel as far as Limoges but had failed to obtain the stamp that would have permitted him to leave Paris. Once in Limoges, the question became Where could he go with both the German and French authorities looking for him? After thinking it over, he walked into the recruiting office of the French Foreign Legion and came out with papers that identified him as Henri Dubert, a Swiss National. He had no intention of reporting to the training depot, though. He had run into a girl he knew and the two of them had decided to try and get to Bordeaux.

Since, if he were stopped and searched, he hadn’t wanted to be found with two sets of papers on him, and so girl carried his German papers. They came to a checkpoint, and she was passed straight through. Behind her, Henri Dubert was held and then shipped to Fort St. Jean, the main Foreign Legion depot in Marseilles. There he tried contacting a man named Varian Fry who ran an emergency rescue service for Jewish artists and writers; he was told that he didn’t qualify for assistance.

In the end, there was nothing he could do but report to the depot for basic training. Eight weeks later, with sore feet and a new respect for soldiers, his commander informed him that the Armistice commission had ordered the Legion demobilized. All foreign enlistees would be turned out.

Fortunately, he had befriended the four Brits by then and, learning they intended to escape to North Africa, convinced them they needed to take him along as their interpreter, he did speak Arabic, after all. With his help they obtained Foreign Legion uniforms and forged papers that identified them as Yugoslavs to be discharged in Casablanca.

From Marseilles they managed to get a ship to Oran and, eventually, but arrived in Casablanca only to find the British consulate closed. They could have tried the American consulate but would have been easy target for the Sûreté who made it a habit to harass refugees, as I had seen. Their forged papers wouldn’t have withstood more than a cursory scrutiny. Out of uniform, would have been arrested as spies.

Somehow, the five of them had found the Blue Parrot and, one night, Jakov hopped on the stage and demonstrated the act he and his sisters used to perform as The Egyptian Triplets. Ferrari had given him a job. Ferrari had also referred the Englishmen to Ugarte who found work for them on his smuggling runs across the southern Sahara. For nearly a year, they had been playing least-in-sight, but time was running out.

“That’s an incredible story,” I said, looking at the Brits strained and sunburnt faces. They were all a little the worse for wear. I knew they wanted to get home, if not back to the war, and suspected a great deal of red wine had been left out of the tale. As for Kordt, I said, “That will you do in England?”

“Join De Gaulle,” he averred.

At this point, they all piped up again, demanding to know what I could do to help them home to Blighty.

“My dear fellows,” I said. “I can see the you’re frustrated and anxious to go home. But, please be patient, and persevere a bit longer. I don’t know what I can do to help you yet, but I mean to do everything in my power, and I don’t despair of finding an answer.”

“Find it soon!” Ferrari swept into the room then and rounded furiously on the soldiers. “Were you mantee boys deliberately trying to cause a riot? Why not go tell Captain Renault you want him to shut me down and ruin my business? Oh, you think it’s funny, do you! Out! Out! The lot of you! Get out of here! You! You!” He shoved the Brits toward the door. Kordt he seized by the arm. “Not you!”

Once we were out on the street, the soldiers said they would escort me to my hotel, to make sure I got there. They attempted to argue when Ugarte told them to go home; he would see me safe. Eventually I told they would attract too much attention and would have to go.

Ugarte and I walked along in silence, each thinking our own thoughts, until Ugarte said, “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, yet.” I had a thought, but I wasn’t about to share it with him. It was obvious to me that he was as leaky as a watering can.

“You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you?”

“I’d be the last person to think such a thing. I’ll do what I can for you. You understand what he means to do when he gets to London?”

“Yes,” he said. “He is so beautiful, don’t you think?”

Kordt was a beautiful creature, but I was not infatuated with him; Ugarte was. I did not ask him what he intended to do; it wouldn’t have helped. We arranged to meet the next day.

Encountering the young soldiers ended my brief vacation from the war, and I found it hard to sleep that night. I would have given anything to be able talk things over with Holmes, but if there was one thing I have learned from him, it is that the essence of a successful plan is simplicity.

The next day, I took a taxi to the American Consulate. The crowd in front of it was as large as it had ever been, and I told the driver to wait. As before, I was admitted to the Consul General’s office.

I cannot say enough about Harold Goold; history will call him a saint. He listened to my story and only asked me if I were certain about the identities of all five men. I said that I was quite prepared to swear for the four British soldiers—two of them undoubtedly had been born in the East End—but I could not speak for Jakov Kordt. I could only observe that he seemed to have been a good friend to them, so far.

Goold summoned a clerk and, in a surprisingly short time, I was holding four British Emergency Certificates in my hand.

“Those can get your soldiers out of Morocco,” Mr. Goold said. “They still need transit visas from the Sûreté, and passage. As for your Jew…” Goold seemed to reflect, then reached into his desk and produced a sheet of consulate letterhead and which he wrote a quick note. The note he sealed in envelope, which he addressed and put aside. Then he took out a business card and jotted something on it. Both the card and the letter were pushed across the desk to me. “Go to the address on the envelope and present the card to Mr. Ellerman. I would very much appreciate it, however, if no one sees the letter.”

The card belonged to one _Charles Ellerman_ , _Managing Director, Occidental Exports Ltd., Middle East and North Africa_. Goold had merely scribbled _You still owe me Charlie—HG_ on the back of it.

I gave my word I that would keep both close, tucked them into my breast pocket. Leaving there, I had the taxi drive me to an address on the Corniche. The brass door plaque merely read _Occidental Exports_.

I handed Goold’s card to the secretary who admitted me, giving my name as George Armistead. The secretary showed me to a comfortable waiting room and left me there. Although, he was gone a considerable time, the office had an excellent view of the harbor; I was able to observe the fishing boats unloading at the docks below and count how many ships stood at anchor outside the ancient breakwater. They were awaiting a birth assignment or else permission to sail.

When the secretary returned, he said Mr. Ellerman would see me and escorted me to the end of a long hall and a comfortably appointed office.

Mr. Ellerman looked to be a man about forty-something, although he could have been older; his expression was severe, his face essentially unlined, and his hair, which he wore slicked back, was so pale a blond that it would have barely shown if there had been any silver in it at all. He was seated at a massive desk and had half-arisen as I entered.

“Mr. Armistead…? What an unexpected pleasure; how delightful to see you again.” The hesitation in his voice had been barely discernable.

“Wha…what? Yes. As you said, d-delightful.”

I couldn’t say the same. Such was my shock as recognition set in—if it hadn’t been for the bragging scar on his left cheek, I wouldn’t have known the smiling stranger from the Tagus River docks—you may be sure I had no trouble enacting the quintessential _Boobus Britannicus_.

I stood gulping like a trout in front of his secretary, but as soon as the secretary closed the door, Ellerman took pity on me. He came and took me by the arm and guided me to a chair.

“Would you like a whiskey? You look like you need one.” he said, indicating a well stocked bar against near the window. “I know I do.”

“P-please,” I said, and watched him prepare two drinks.

“A splash of soda, I believe.” He was smiling as he handed me one.

“Thank you.” I toasted him and took a deep gulp, letting it dissolve my stress. “That helps. I confess.” I sighed. “This is the last thing I expected. I don’t know what to say. Are you one of Mrs. ‘Arris’s nephews?”

“I don’t know what that means. I am exactly what I appear to be. Perhaps, Mr. Armistead, it’s best if we say nothing, and proceed ‘as if’. Harold indicates that he would like me to assist you; that is good enough, so why don’t you tell me what I can do for you.”

I fumbled in my coat, recovered Mr. Goold’s letter, and gave it to Ellerman.

After he’d read it, he said, “Transit visas for four British soldiers, will not be a problem, but an Emergency Certificate for a German national…? You may be asking me to send a potential spy to England.” He frowned. “What do you know about his man?”

“He’s hardly a pure-bred Aryan; says he’s Jew. Other than that, not much…he’s a writer.”

“Really? What does he write?”

“Magazine articles. Sounds Bolshi, from what he said, but he’s that young. Wants to be a novelist.” I was not even tempted to chuckle. “Sent his first manuscript to a publisher in London last year.”

Still looking doubtful, Ellerman went to his desk, sat down and picked up his pen. “What is his name?”

“Jakov Kordt.”

“’Darkness at Noon’?” Ellerman looked up at me.

“Was it published?” said I. “I had no idea. I’ve had so little time for reading this past year…what with…er…working, you know?”

“I should have realized. My apologies, I wondered why…” Ellerman began pulling forms out of his desk. “It’s a good book and I am very willing to sign my name to an Emergency Certificate, for Herr Kordt’s contribution to English letters. He will probably be arrested as soon as he arrives in England; I doubt he’ll care about that.” I could tell Ellerman was talking to me as much as to himself. “This war is a crime. There are so many writers, whose work I have missed. One, in particular, from whom I would love a new story.”

“With material laying about everywhere, these days,” I said. “One never knows.”

“Mr. Armistead, if you can obtain the exit visas, I might be able to have them on a fishing boat leaving for Lisbon tomorrow night.” Ellerman looked up. “Do you have access to a phone?” I nodded, thinking I might be able to use Ferrari’s line, although, I could always place a call from the hotel. “Call my secretary by 3 o’clock tomorrow, tell him your name, and that the manifest is prepared. If you miss that deadline, we will have to make other arrangements.”

“I understand,” I said.

I never saw the letter Goold wrote but, along with with Kordt’s Emergency Certificate, Ellerman gave me back the card on which Goold had scribbled that brief message. A phone number had been added to the bottom. I still have it, somewhere.

It’s a humbling thing to realize that you are holding a man’s freedom, possibly his life, in your hand. When I left Ellerman’s office and I held five men’s lives.

I had my driver take me to the headquarters of the Sûreté where I presented one of Armistead’s card and asked to see Captain Renault.

I was promptly ushered into his office.

“Mr. Armistead,” Renault said. “I have been hoping for the opportunity to meet you. What can I do for one of our rare American visitors?”

Captain Renault was a small man. Not especially a handsome man, but he was attractive his way, and I would have found him a marvelous fountain of gallic charm, if I had not known what I knew of his proclivities. As it was, I was a little short with him.

“I need five exit visas with today’s stamp on them, made out in these names,” I said, taking out the the Emergency Certificates, and pushed them across his great desk.

“And I would like Hedy Lamar’s phone number.” Renault picked up the certificates, glanced at them, and tossed them down. “I’m afraid we are both out of luck.”

“How much would you expect to be bribed for five exit visas?” I said.

He pretended to be disappointed. “That’s not…what do you say…cricket. It’s the custom in Morocco to haggle, until we reach a mutually agreeable bargain.”

“I haven’t the time,” I said. “And, where I’m from, the game is baseball.”

“Ten thousand francs,” he said.

“One thousand,” I said.

“That’s ridiculous—paltry—given the urgency of your request.” Renault looked honestly appalled. “Be realistic Mr. Armistead, you walk in here asking for for something that takes weeks to process. I need to look into these names…investigate them…make sure these people are not socially undesirable.”

Renault picked up the certificates again and rifled through them. One ‘seemed’ to catch his eye; at least, he raised a brow. He said, “Does your wife know what goes on in places like the Blue Parrot?”

It is for occasions like this that you let the pig think he’s found a truffle. When Ugarte asked me a similar question, he was scrambling in desperation for any hold he could get. Renault asked it as a calculated move.

Years before I ever met Holmes, my Mary died of influenza and, yet, I have never removed my ring. She was a woman of rare understanding, and the gold band reminds me that I was young once.

“What I do in the Blue Parrot, Captain Renault, is play Backgammon with Mr. Ferrari. You would know that if you bothered read the reports your spies provide you. But, since you’ve chosen to spread the stench of blackmail over this conversation, may I ask if you’re certain you want the world to know you’ve extorting money, and worse, from Jewish refugees?”

“That is slanderous; I could have you arrested.”

“Do, by all means! As an American citizen, any crime I you care to accuse me of will be adjudicated by the American embassy in Rabat.” That, too, was true. “But, allow me to explain something, to you. We are not realistic people, we Americans, not by your standards, and there are shortly going to be more of us pouring through Casablanca than you can possibly imagine. Do you understand me?” Stunned, Renault turned ashen, and I caught a rank whiff of fear “When this war is over, whose side do you want to have been on?”

I pointed to the framed map of the world, hanging on the wall behind him, and Renault swiveled around in his chair. In that projection both the United States and Red Russia were rendered huge. When he swiveled back around.

“I take your point,” he said. “A thousand dollars, you said, I believe.”

The pig had caught sight of one tiny truffle and was afraid of losing it.

“A thousand francs.” I reached for my wallet. “I want to take the papers with me.”

He looked chagrinned but gave the necessary orders.

I will say that he recovered a good deal of his savoir faire while we waited for the papers to be processed. “I’m not a bad man, you know, Mr. Armistead. You’ve given me a lot to think about. For example, I think I wonder who you really are.”

“Assume I am who I appear to be, Captain. You are not at all good at blackmail. I know. I have stood by and watched men shot dead who were good at it.”

I was only reciting a fact. All the benefits pertaining to Mr. Ellerman’s whiskey had long since evaporated, and I felt chill and distant. I do not know what Renault saw reflected in my eyes, that caused him to blanch, but the acrid smell grew stronger.

Fortunately, a clerk shortly brought the exit visas and I was free to depart.

 

~*~

 

**_This fragment is part of a manuscript found in a battered tin dispatch-box with the name John H. Watson, Late Brit. Exp. Frc. (The Old Contemptibles) 1917 painted on the lid. The discovery is part of an archaeological dig at the site of the former Cox and Co. Bankers, Charing Cross. The building was destroyed in 1945 by a V2 Rocket. Conservators are in the process of stabilizing and restoring the fragments recovered so far and hope to have the tale available in its entirety soon._ **


	2. Chapter 2

It was mid-afternoon, by the time I told the ever-patient taxi driver to take me back to the Transatlantique. We were almost there when I changed my mind; if there was anywhere in Casablanca where the phones were more likely to be bugged…

I had him bring me to the Blue Parrot and when I walked in Ferrari was behind the counter with Umar. He called, “George! You’re just in time,” and pointed to the table where the backgammon board was set up. “We can finish the match, and I want to talk to you.”

“May I use your phone?” I said.

“It’s in the desk.” Ferrari pointed to an alcove with its beaded curtain was tied back, and there was a rolltop desk. “Come talk to me when you’re done.”

The desk stand was an older style and I had to jiggle the hook a number of times; finally, it connected, and I was able to ring through.

I heard the voice of Ellerman’s secretary when it picked up. _“Occidental Exports.”_

“George Armistead here,” I said. “I’m calling about that crate for Windward Spices I discussed with Mr. Ellerman. The last one. I wanted to let him know the manifest is complete.”

_“Excellent news, Mr. Armistead. You’ll need to have all five crates on the pier before midnight. Number seven.”_

“I don’t expect that will be a problem.”

I put the receiver on the hook and glanced at my watch. It was some hours yet before the time I had arranged to meet Ugarte; a couple of matches of backgammon would pass the time. When I stepped from the alcove, though, the board was on the floor and Ferrari was out in the garden, yelling at someone to leave the bird alone, or he would take a stick to him.

I had started gathering up the scattered counters, when in he strode carrying Blue Peter on his perch.

“Bloody urchins were bothering my bird,” he said.

“Pluck my feathers,” cried Blue Peter. “Pluck my feathers.”

“Sounds like an invitation to mayhem,” I said. “Teach him to say something else.”

“If you know’s a better ‘ole, go to it,” Blue Peter said.

“You’re a dirty bird!” I said. “What regiment did you serve in?”

“Kiss me arse,” said Blue Peter.

“I should have roasted him a long time ago,” said Ferrari. “He was an indulgence in my youth; if I’d known how long they live…”

Under Blue Peter’s beady and malevolent eye, Ferrari and I attempted to settle down to some serious play. We threw the dice and moved the counters, while the bird circled his perch and every so often extended his snake-like neck to make a snatch at a counter. Every time he did, Ferrari pushed his beak away, and I cringed inside. That bird could have cracked a thumb joint as easily as a nut with his beak.

In my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I have stood at his side, watching him confront rogues, villains, and monsters in human form, and have never seen him lose his self-possession. There have, in fact, been times when the stakes were high, and danger imminent, when he seemed to derive pleasure from the experience. I asked him about it once and he admitted it was true at those times when, from the knock on the door to the moment the cuffs were clapped on some rogue’s writs, and every step in the case had been the direct result of unassailable logic. At those times, to him, the universe seemed like a great machine of which he was an integral part.

I concluded that being addicted to logic had to be healthier than being addicted to cocaine, even if the affect appeared to be the same. I have never experienced anything like it myself, though, and this occasion was no exception.

Renault was not a monster. He was a nasty piece of work who used his position to prey on the weak and vulnerable—the lowest of the low—and I had done what needed to be done under the circumstances. But now the intuitive certainty that had supported me when I implied knowing for a fact that America that would soon be in the war, was gone. Doubt had snuck in and burst the bubble of hope. In short, I was disheartened. If I had been counting on the game to settle my nerves, they were too disordered, and the bird’s antics didn’t help.

Ferrari grew quickly tired of my sighs and inept play and I failed to notice that he summoned the khol-eyed waiter, but my thanks were genuine when the glass of Egyptian tea appeared in front of me. I picked it up and permitted myself be beguiled for a moment by the sugar crystals dissolving in the amber liquid.

“What are you waiting for?” said Ferrari. “Drink. Maybe it will improve your game.”

I drank—and choked and coughed and sputtered—and nearly dropped the glass. “Thass…”

Ferrari slapped my shoulder. “My apologies.”

“G-good God! Why didn’t you tell me it was gunpowder?!”

“Again, my apologies. You seemed to need it. Captain Renault can have a most distressing effect a person. Since you walked out of his office, he’s thrown his men into the streets; already two dozen have been arrested. What did you do to set him off?”

“How long have you been having me followed?”

“It’s for your own protection.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

 “I’m not the only one. You’re a rare bird in these parts, John.”

“And I will take my patronage elsewhere if you’re going to compare me to Blue Peter.” I looked the fat man in the face, and said, “Let’s suppose—just suppose—that I manage to arrange transit papers for Kordt, will you let him go, or will I have to buy him from you?”

“Allow me to make you a present of him, wrapped in a big Christmas bow but only if you take his damned entourage, too.”

“That’s oddly generous of you.”

“Not at all.” Ferrari brushed away the compliment.

“It will cost you a star.”

“There are other dancers, and many stars.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There is none. The lads have been making a bloody nuisance of themselves; I don’t want Renault poking his nose in here.”

“Still damned decent of you,” I said. “You know, I think you may be the only person in Casablanca who hasn’t tried to work an angle on me… _Yet._ ”

“That’s not necessarily to my credit. All I want is a quiet life and I would have it but, unfortunately, I retain one or two fond memories of Merrie Olde England. Think of it as an indulgence I allow myself, like that damn bird, but don’t ever make the mistake of imagining I’d go out of my way or put my business at risk for you.”

“Understood,” I said, and we carried on with the game.

I can’t say anything Ferrari told me improved my play—far from it—but I settled down and was bearing off when Ugarte arrived. He was in a considerable taking.

“Oh, Mr. Armistead, I’m so glad to find you here,” he said, making a beeline for the bar.

Arriving at our table with drink in hand, he almost spilled it when Blue Peter lunged at him. “Does this creature need to be here?”

“Feel free to find another place to drink,” said Ferrari.

“Kiss me arse,” said Blue Peter.

“You’re early,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” Ugarte said.

“A whole hour,” I said. “Has something happened?”

“Thank you for asking,” Ugarte said. “Captain Renault is what you call a bug up his arse. What do you Americans call that?”

“A bee in your bonnet,” I said, and threw the dice.

“That’s so much nicer. America must be a pleasant country. You know the police are all over the streets, arresting anyone they can get their hands on. They are wrecking my business.”

His purpose—in case I have not been perfectly clear about the nature of Ugarte’s business—was to complain the Sûreté had raided one of his house—it was unprecedented—and two of his girls, found to have expired papers, had been arrested and taken to the internment camp at Ayachi. He would have to find replacements for them.

While he drank his Dubonnet, I finished my gunpowder and reflected that I had set out that morning with the sole intention of asking Harold Goold for advice. Like a magician, the Consul General had waved his pen over four of my mice and restored them to British manhood, and then sent me on to Ellerman, who had turned out to be a wizard.

“W-what are you going to do to help those poor girls?” I said.

“Nothing,” said he. “There is nothing anyone can do. One of them has no nationality anymore, and the other is Spanish; if she’s sent home, Franco will have her executed. Did you have a chance to consider the problem we discussed last night?”

“What problem was that…? Oh. Oh yes,” I said. “You said something about a sponsor for Jakov. I did have some thoughts—someone in mind—I’d like to talk to you about. Is it possible for you to meet me at Rick’s tonight, say ten o’clock, for dinner?”

“Jakov is going to be dancing again tonight, but I can be there by ten-thirty.”

“That will be perfect,” I said.

Ugarte did not stay long after finishing off his drink; when he left Ferrari drew his thumb across the edge of his lower lip.

“What is that fishy look you’re giving for?”

“I can’t see it. Ugarte has all the charm of a garden snail,” he said, “and, yet, you’re going to have dinner with him.”

“I am,” I said.

“Dare I ask why?”

“Certainly. But, first, do you know where I could find those four lads you’re so anxious to be rid of?”

“Knock on the ceiling. They went on quite a bender after you left last night; they’re sleeping it off upstairs.” Ferrari looked troubled “Just so you know, someone took the trouble of having Jimsy beaten within an inch of his life. I can’t say I blame them, but it was excessive. Again, dare I ask why you’re throwing yourself into Ugarte’s arms? It seems precipitous.”

“I have four Emergency Certificates with stamped exit visas in my pocket. I can get them out of here tonight, but if they’re caught… As British soldiers out of uniform, in a country allied with the enemy, they’ll be put up against a wall.”

Ferrari’s turned the information over.

“What about Kordt?”

“I have papers for him, too, but his issues are not as likely to get him shot. I need you to do me a favour.”

“What part of ‘a quiet life’ did you not understand?”

“I need you to put all five of them in a taxi and have them delivered to Pier 7 on the Corniche before midnight tonight.”

“No. If you want them, take them yourself.”

“A taxi. There’s nothing illegal in that.”

“Bloody hell! No!” Ferrari raised his hand, and I thought the backgammon board was going to hit the floor again.

“You’ve lost a lot of hair and put on a bit of weight since we last met, Captain…”

Ferrari’s face became a study. It was obvious how he badly wanted to hit something, probably me, but, at last, he said, “I didn’t know you’d realized. How long…?”

“Not long. You slipped earlier and called me John.”

“God,” Ferrari lowered his hand, “I hope Ugarte shoots you!”

“Is that gratitude? And after I saved your leg.”

“It was your duty to save the leg. Now it feels as if you’re going to leave me sitting in a sanitary trench, holding a hand grenade, while everyone else plays least in sight.”

“I doubt it will come to that.” I removed the envelope with the papers from my pocket. “You’ll to keep this under the till in the cash register until the last minute. The fewer who know anything the better.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Again, Ferrari sighed, as he made the papers disappear. “Ugarte is a stone-cold killer!”

“I know I can keep him busy until midnight. After that, we’ll see. Do you want me to have a word with your lads?”

“Suddenly, they’re my lads?” Ferrari looked disgusted. “No. I’ll take care of that, when the time comes. As you said, the fewer know, the better.”

“Thank you, Captain. Sincerely.” I stood. “How is your leg, by the way.”

“Still attached, as you can see; thank you, very much. Now go away.”

“Kiss me arse,” said Blue Peter.

“My sentiments exactly,” Ferrari chucked the feathers under the bird’s hooked beak. As I left, I heard him cooing, _Who’s Papa’s sweet boy, then_.

There is a quality to the twilight one only sees in the Maghreb in winter. It was only four-thirty, but a purple curtain was descending, so I let one of the urchins who was begging outside, flag down a taxi, and gave him a coin.

By the time I reached the Transatlantique sunset was a faint gold line in the western sky, and I was all too aware of how much I had drunk on an empty stomach. Rolls and butter, with coffee for breakfast, were all that I’d eaten that day and there were hours before I was to meet Ugarte for dinner. A word with Mr. Aldani solved that problem, at least.

He said that he would have room service bring a powder to my room. I asked for a bit of fruit and a tartine as well. Of course, he said, and _Oh, yes!_ _Here’s a wire here for you, sir, that came while you were out._

With the telegram in my hand, I climbed into the lift and pushed the button for my floor, but I was too impatient to wait until I got to my room. I tore it open and then leaned against the bars of the cage. The telegram read—ORDER DELAYED STOP EXPECT DELIVERY SOONEST STOP—J HARRIS—PURCHASING—WINDWARD SPICES.

I was so overwhelmed with relief, that once I’d achieved the room, I threw myself on the bed. My stomach was roiling, my head was pounding, and my bruised shoulder ached badly where Jimsy had stuck me with the door, but even with all that, the only thought in my head was that Holmes was alive, and would be here _soonest…_

Afterwards, I needed a shower, but I needed to compose myself more. Here I was in Casablanca and, in spite of all the promises and all the packets of all the nephews of Mrs. ‘Arris, two people had recognized me on the same day. All right, it was true Ferrari had recognized me the moment I walked into the Blue Parrot, but I hadn’t known that, until today.

None of it was reassuring but, after thinking it over, I knew that despite his remark about being abandoned in a trench holding a grenade, I had no real fear that Ferrari would fail or sabotage my arrangements for getting the lads out of the country. He had been a competent officer—physically brave and, from what I could remember, no more than moderately corrupt—and hadn’t had a rep, as some did, for taking advantage of his young lads, or wasting them to look flash to his superiors. Whatever happened to him after the war had to have been plain hard luck.

Ugarte on the other hand, with his obsession with Kordt, was going to need careful handling.

I must have been fallen briefly asleep and, when the porter knocked, I startled and almost flung myself on the floor. Fortunately, even in that state of confusion I recognized who’s voice it was.

When I let him in, he had brought a tray with mineral water, a blue bottle of bicarbonate, and the food that I’d ordered. The bromide worked its magic and I ate the tartine. When I’d finished, I lay back down, slept for three solid hours and woke much improved.

It was almost 9 o’clock. I had time, yet and the porter had left a copy of the _Herald Tribune_ on the tray. The edition was out of Syracuse—Syracuse, New York—and only three days old. I turned to the editorial page. The lead came down hard for American isolation, saying the country’s interest would best be served by ‘letting Germany conquer England and the Soviet Union’, rather than entering the war for the sake of six-hundred thousand Jews who could be resettled. Interestingly enough, the cartoon was a sketch of Charles Lindbergh, patting the head of a snake with Hitler’s face, and saying, “‘Tis Roosevelt, Not Hitler, that the World Should Really Fear”.

The banner informed me that the German Army was pushing closer to the gates of Moscow. Below it, I learned the Japanese had sent assurances to Cordell Hull that troop movements in French Indo-China were merely precautionary, that Senator Greenberg was reiterating his request for a deferment of the draft, and six Senate Republicans were calling FDR changing the date of Thanksgiving a ‘high-handed insult to the memory of Lincoln’.

I tried to skim the rest of the paper, but my eyes kept drifting to the advertisements for foods at prices not seen in England for years—comforting to know that somewhere bananas were 10¢ a pound—an ad for soap caught my eye: _Hi Soldier! Have you tried the new Lifebuoy? – First with men in Uniform – really stops B.O.!_

And, suddenly, I was having a vividly visceral impression of the mud of the Salient as it had been in November of ’17. Stinking of decaying bodies, it clung to my boots, encased my body in its clayey grip, and sucked me down. It felt as if I were suffocating. The attack lasted thirty seconds, a minute at the most; I should have timed it.

When it was over, I got up and showered.

Before I left the hotel, I informed Mr. Adani that, if anyone should ask, I could be found at the Café Américain.

I chose to walk. It was a short stroll but, even at that time of night, there was the certainty of being pestered by beggars. It was a bit like running a gauntlet. I was able to ignore most of them. One, though had found a place for his mat by the entrance to the café. He had not yet been chased away. I almost stepped on him.

Suddenly, he was on his knees, thrusting his bowl at me, crying piteously. I dropped a 50-centime piece in the bowl. He felt it and cursed me as the ungenerous son of a poxy camel driver and crying out, did I not know the Prophet, peace be upon him, commends the giving of alms as a pillar of Islam?

I dug into my pockets and let a shower of zinc and aluminum fall into his bowl. The coins might have had the value of an American quarter, but he sifted them with his fingers, blessing me a thousand times for helping one whom Allah had chosen to make blind.

It had been a week since I last stepped inside of Rick’s. The pianist was playing _Smoke Gets in Your Eye_ as I entered and Carl, The Maître d’ greeted me by name, as if I were an old customer. He asked if I wanted a private table. I said Yes, I expected to be dining with a business associate later but would be having a drink first. I asked him if Captain Renault been in that evening.

A look of almost comical annoyance appeared on Carl’s face as he divulged that the captain was, at that moment, in the casino. Did I, too, wish to gamble?

I noticed he caught the eye of the owner, Rick Blaine, who was sitting nearby, and waited for an almost imperceptible nod of the head before making the offer. As I said, Rick’s was well managed.

Much as I appreciated the invitation, I declined. I did say that if Carl happened to see Captain Renault and mentioned that I was in the bar I would appreciate it. I slipped him the bill between my fingers. Carl said, Of course, just let him know when I was ready for my table.

I found a place to stand at the bar, wagged my fingers at the barman, and tuned into to the strands of conversation around me, while I waited for my drink.

_…wants to sell a diamond necklace, but diamonds are a drug on the market…_

_…hear the captain of the ‘Oracio’ sold a berth for eight hundred—same one he sold for six hundred yesterday…_

_…talk to Captain Renault but wait a day or two; you’re a lovely girl and…_

_…leaving in an hour…tickets on the night train…got to be in Oran…_

_…you need to avoid the American Consulate at midmorning and the cinemas in the evening when they let out, especially now that Ren…_

Even in my brief time in Casablanca, I had learned that the Sûreté had its tracks and ran on them—it was understood; it was how things worked—and now that I had upset Renault’s applecart, I needed to see what else I could overturn.

I turned and looked to the man on my right. He was flirting with a young French-Algerian woman, much to the barman’s evident disgust. I turned to the man on my left. His was the voice I’d overheard talking about tickets to Oran. He had the snub, squared off practical look of an engineer, and was more than a little the worse for wear. I bumped him, inadvertently.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, “Buy you another?”

Whilst I cannot obtain any particular pleasure from ratiocination, as Holmes does, when it comes to risking it all on a throw of the dice…I’m your man.

 

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Life during WW2 is an area of general interest to me. Sources of information in chapters 1 and 2 include, but are not limited to, many Google and Wikipedia searches and the following histories:  
> "Destination Casablanca: Exile, Espionage, and the Battle for North Africa in World War II" by Meredith Hindley and Matthew Waterson  
> "Lisbon: War in the Shadows of the City of Light, 1939–1945" by Neill Lochery and Robin Sachs  
> "Wartime: Understanding and Behavior in the Second World War" by Paul Fussell  
> "How We Lived Then: History of Everyday Life During the Second World War" by Norman Longmate  
> "We'll Eat Again" - a collection of recipes from the war years selected by Marguerite Patten in association with the Imperial War Museum  
> "Half the Battle: Civilian Morale in Britain During the Second World War" by Robert Mackay  
> "Spymistress: The True Story of the Greatest Female Secret Agent of World War II" by William Stevenson  
> "A Life in Secrets: Vera Atkins and the Missing Agents of WW2" by Sarah Helm  
> "Between Silk and Cyanide: A Codemaker's War. 1941-1945" by Leo Marks


End file.
